


brief snapshots on the ice

by actualmichelle



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Background Moments, Fix-It, Introspection, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-04-05 18:09:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19045684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/actualmichelle/pseuds/actualmichelle
Summary: For someone James is so tired of being around, he certainly does think about Francis a great deal.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> “People think that intimacy is about sex. But intimacy is about truth. When you realize you can tell someone your truth, when you can show yourself to them, when you stand in front of them and their response is “you’re safe with me” - that’s intimacy.” — The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo by Taylor Jenkins Reid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been sitting on my laptop for months now and I've decided to just post it in installments. Please feel free to alert me to any gross grammatical errors, historical inaccuracies, or internally inconsistent plot points.

It was easy to avoid being alone with Francis and as time went on that continued. Between being on different ships and Francis’ propensity for solitude James had very little direction interaction with the man. And it was for the best, he told himself firmly. Despite the curiosity and tentative warm regard James had felt for him at the start it seemed they were not fated to be friends. Never mind what he’d heard and impressions he’d gathered back home, Francis was less than delightful to be around. Dour and argumentative, at best. And while James would not run from an argument, he certainly did not see value in becoming involved in one without a cause. 

And so, the contentious beginnings of their relationship was left to fester, with James’ earliest attempts at friendship rebuffed until he fell into silence. He’d much rather have been friends but that did not seem to be in the cards for them; again, James told himself it was for the best. 

As they sailed farther north and the cold became progressively more biting the men became more social in turn tentative friendships turning closer knit as they began to long for home, seeking comfort in what company they could find. But not Francis. With each passing day the rejected invitations from Sir John for meals or recreational time spent together grew larger. It was, James reflected, hard not to feel hurt. Especially after seeing the contempt in Francis’ eyes whenever James spoke.

Perhaps that was the crux of the matter-- despite not being directed at solely himself the rejection felt like a reflection on his own character, even from someone with whom James was not well acquainted. And from a man who James had previously admired from afar it stung a great deal, striking upon the shameful parts of himself he sought most to protect.

At this moment they were at a rare group meal, the two of them with Sir John and a smattering of officers. James was telling a story, only barely listening to himself speak (in the back of his mind dreading the day when he ran out of appropriate tales!). Periodically, reflexively he glanced at Francis in hopes of seeing the faintest gleam of interest or regard in his eyes. But no—each time he merely looked like he was contemplating jumping out the window into the icy sea or stuffing his ears with napkins to escape the sound of James’ voice.

The story came to its natural end with a collection of chuckles from the other men and an approving smile from Sir John. James took a drink of his water, throat unduly scratchy from all his talking. As his lips met the rim of his cup James looked up, only to find Francis’ heavy gaze on him. 

The chill must be getting to him--that was the reason for the tightness in his chest.

* 

Such moments followed James, haunting him when he took the time to introspect. Why on earth he was bothered so much by one man he could not begin to explain even in the privacy of this own mind. But as the fatalities began the thoughts were pushed aside, down into the darker subject matters he tried to ignore. James simply could not afford the energy it took to puzzle over the captain or any other negative thoughts, and progressively more so did not care to. As a result, when the two men found themselves alone, he couldn’t have been more unprepared. 

James was sitting at the table, writing up some notes in his journal. A knock sounded on the door followed by a smooth entry. James looked up, and upon seeing who it was the smile froze on his face and slid off, “Ah. Francis—hello. Nice weather for a walk over?”

Francis peered at him, face blank with nary a chuckle. Silently James stared back, not willing to be the first to crack. The awkward silence continued for moments more and then Francis shifted his gaze somewhere to the left of James’ head. 

“Is Sir John about? I needed to speak with him about our current predicament,” Francis pulled his hat off as he spoke.

James shook his head—the captain had requested to not be disturbed until daybreak unless an emergency struck.

“It is only I—apologies for any inconvenience that might cause you. Please Francis, take a seat. If there’s anything you need speak of, I can offer you my ear in his stead?”

Meeting his gaze again Francis pulled out a chair and sat.

“I merely want to know his thoughts. We are trapped here now for the winter and need to begin planning for what’s to come,” Francis managed to imbue these few words with a fair amount of bitterness.

“From what we discussed so far, I believe Sir John intends to continue much as we have, with the addition of a hunting party perhaps and some scouts to see the lay of the land. Or the ice, as the case may be.”

It was another bad not-joke and James almost winced to hear it, but to his surprise Francis offered a small half smile and raised his eyebrow in a matter of fact way, “As the case may be.”

James tapped his pen against the page with a returning half smile, caught unawares when Francis’ eyes shifted down to his notebook.

“Writing down events to tell in future tales, are you? I’m sure your admirers back home will be only too excited to trade in the guano for stories of the arctic,” Francis said dryly, and James took the opportunity to flip through the pages under his watchful gaze.

In addition to the pages of handwriting there were interjections of numbers and tables from earlier measurements, along with periodic illustrations. At one paged Francis reached out and paused James’ progress, sharp eyes tracing along the drawing presented: a lonely expanse with four graves side by side, sky ominous. Francis looked up at James again, eyes searching and the ghost of a gentleness to his face that James hitherto swore could never exist.

“It is a cold world James, but it can get colder. Stay steadfast. I will return tomorrow,” he said simply, standing up and walking out the door before James could offer an appropriate response.

It wasn’t until Francis’ footsteps echoed away down the hall and faded that James exhaled, that damned tightness once again clenching his heart and his finger burning where Francis’ own hand had briefly brushed against his.

* 

As the routine began to settle in James found that he was starting to have difficulties in distinguishing the days of the week from one another, all events congealing into an endless blur. He compensated by more diligently taking notes in his journal and keeping a strict calendar with daily highlights, jotting down sketches as the chance arose—a bit of added structure and organization to his days, as well as a friendly piece of familiarity. As Crozier had said a cold world it was, and with so little to keep them warm.

It was also a lonely world—though there was plenty interaction with his men, due to his position there were few with whom James could take confidence. Were it not for Sir John, James reflected, he would surely go mad from a lack of outlet for his own need for some meaningful social connection. One of the darkest nights of the winter while sitting in the meeting room together after dinner James said as much.

The captain merely chuckled, “Oh James, we are surrounded by plenty of company and tasks to fulfill our time. If nothing else, turn to God and He will comfort you in this darkness. But don’t you worry—spring will be here before we know it!”

James had smiled idly, extending a thank you for the typically benevolent advice. Privately he was becoming progressively disturbed by Sir John’s attitude. There was avoiding undue concern and then there was not taking seriously the risks—and while certainly those couldn’t be as insurmountable as Francis repeatedly suggested, they were real enough for caution. But more and more lately his captain had seemed nearly irrationally optimistic about the progress of events. All the same, James much preferred it to the idea of a John Franklin who had become tainted by Francis’ own negativity.

After all what did James know? He had never before been on an arctic expedition. That criticism—and many others—from Francis’ own mouth was now living and constantly rattling around in James’ head. Not that he allowed it to undermine his own confidence but certainly it gave him pause enough to be grateful that he was not yet a captain, as no longer did he feel entirely sure that he would currently be up to the task.

In the end James decided that it must just be inaction that was getting him down, and allowing these circular thoughts was just making the situation seem worse. After all, it was natural for a man to feel worse in the darker months. And for James sitting around was not the natural state of being, it tended to give rise to his most self-critical thoughts. 

Eventually with the earliest sign of increased daylight there came a chance for some walking outside of their home base. Mister Goodsir was interested in obtaining samples and James had been quite thrilled to volunteer to accompany him and a small party. They set out at daybreak, dressed in their warmest for the long day ahead. 

The ice crunching under their feet, the sun shining sharply from above—for a moment if the biting cold was ignored, it felt a bit more hospitable.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of Francis' POV this time.

Francis measured each day with drinks, extending them as far as he could—a sip here, a sip there. For brief moments the burn of whiskey made him feel warm. It touched him more deeply than anything else on this expedition, Francis reflected. He desperately wished for the company of James Ross and longed deeply for the pleasure of Sophia’s presence; those were the two people who had most inspired feelings in him throughout his life, and the two to whom his thoughts always returned.

Today found him sitting at the table in his main cabin, maps and books strewn about on the surface. Neptune had flopped down nearby and not elected to get up even at Jopson’s comings and goings. It had been a peaceful morning until the knock came. Francis looked up, immediately feeling his stomach drop unpleasantly.

“Hello Francis,” Sir John exclaimed from the doorway, sounding downright chipper. Francis held back the impulse to cringe, only made stronger when he noticed James standing not far behind. _For fuck’s sake…._

“Gentlemen. Please, take a seat—would you like a drink?” Francis stood up, offering a nod if not a smile.

Sir John predictably elected for water, while James accepted Francis’ offer with a thank you. The three men finally seated, Neptune lazily stood and shuffled over to flop down next to James’ chair. Francis raised his eyebrows, feeling not just a tiny bit betrayed. 

“Ah! Someone has found a friend. Next thing you know, and the dog will be stealing away to Erebus,” Sir John chuckled to himself while James began to lavish attention on the dog, not meeting Francis’ gaze.

“Oh, I don’t think we’ll need to worry about that Sir John,” Francis replied flatly, before he remembered to slide the extra bit of energy into his voice that he reserved just for the man—really, Sir John required an exceptional amount of emotional upkeep. Speak to him once with a flat tone and the man might hound you for days. 

A silence descended, with James poking through the maps on the table idly being uncharacteristically silent as he nursed his drink and periodically ducked down a hand to pat Neptune. It could have been companionable if not for all the things that weren’t being said, words that Francis knew were sensed by the other two men if not in spirit then certainly in mood. Since the damage was already long done why bother with diplomacy.

“I do not think we will be able to make it out this spring,” Francis never had been one to long keep his mouth shut, much to Thomas Blanky’s (not to mention James Ross’) chagrin.

James looked up at him, the beginnings of that goddamned familiar smirk clinging to his lips and he looked from Francis to Sir John silently. Francis bristled with the implicit knowledge that he was being mocked already, the part of him always alert to insult rearing its head. Things never changed it seemed, no matter how right one was social standing counted for more.

“Francis. We have spoken of this numerous times. At length. You know my plans and that I have no faith in your worries, no need for your input on the matter.”

An awkward, pinched look came to James’ face and he turned back to Francis whose own gaze was darkening. Seeming to sense a violent shift in the mood between the other men James cleared his throat, “I’m sure the situation is not dire as all that. And if it were to become so, we’ll be ready; we have some fine minds on our crews if I do say so.”

Sir John smiled at James proudly, the moment ended. Francis just shook his head, the heavy feeling of foreboding that so often haunted him these days drifting back. Drink, momentary floods of righteous anger—those were the only things that chased the heaviness away, leaving warmth in its place.

The discussion, small as it was in comparison to many others, stayed with Francis up until the day when Graham Gore was killed. In retrospect it seemed like horrible foreshadowing for his confrontation with Sir John—the worst part of that being the steady, judgmental gaze of James Fitzjames in the hall outside John’s cabin. How was it that the other man could tear into him and imbue him with shame with a mere look? It struck him more deeply than any other disappointment or anger ever had. 

*

Hours after that very last heated conversation Sir John was dead. Francis gave the order to send out a party for help, set to leave after their day of mourning. They held a service, the crack of the guns echoing into the cold distance. Afterwards Francis ventured back to Erebus to see James, only partially at Thomas’ request--the agonized expression in the younger man’s eyes had gnawed at them both.

The door to the boardroom was open and James sat inside, alone. His hands were tangled together on the table that he slumped over, journal laying nearby open and forgotten. Francis stepped in, closing the door gently behind him and taking a seat on the chair next to James—but still the other man did not look at him.

“I feel as if…I have lost a rather large part of my world. A world which during our time out here has become progressively smaller,” James finally whispered, face carefully blank. For the first time Francis realized how much emotion James kept buried behind what seemed to be a very thick façade—he had seen this expression on the man’s face before and had not realized what it meant. Repressed emotion that James did not feel he had the right or safety to express. Francis realized suddenly that be must tread carefully and gently here, more than he was naturally predisposed to as of late. 

Francis settled on silence, unsure how to proceed and well aware that he was speaking to a man who could be on the cusp of breaking—it was hard to tell, and for the first time Francis wish he knew James better. If only so he could properly gauge the situation and decide a course of action. 

“It will be okay, James. Take this time to let yourself grieve as you said,” Francis finally said. Hesitantly he reached out his hand and placed it over James’ own, still tangled together and at first touch Francis realized—trembling. Softly he continued, “There are many on both ships that respect and care for you; you are not alone.” 

James shut his eyes and turned his face away, but neither man moved his hands.


	3. Chapter 3

After that awful day James began to feel the darkness encroaching on him more deeply than before, and despite Francis’ reassuring words the other captain became increasingly scarce. It felt as though a rift was growing in size between their two ships and each new event no matter how inconsequential added an obstacle, separating them from one another in an increasingly solid way.

Then came the lashing of Hickey, and James returned to his cabin that night feeling as though they were on the precipice of some deeper darkness that once descended to could not be escaped. He had never seen the like and not for the first time felt the loss of Sir John quite keenly. The man had become a mentor and a friend over the past years and not having him as a guide and a piece of stability to rely on was more discomforting than James could accept. 

Still day after day Francis continued to descend in to a strange sort of isolation, refusing to see James unless he ventured to the Terror, Lieutenant Little functioning as their main point of contact. James suspected that whiskey was keeping Francis company more than anything else, a suspicion which was quickly confirmed by Francis’ inopportune breakdown. 

Shouting at one another prior to Thomas Blanky’s attack had been relieving in a visceral way, and for a moment James had felt that he and Francis were on the cusp of _something_. Maybe an understanding or coming to blows again—or both; anything would be better than the continued silence and the now returned disregard and ill will. Not for the first time, James was struck by the novelty of someone who he felt saw him too clearly but yet felt so removed and isolated from the world.

But any something had been erased with Francis’ small speech, relinquishing command and his weapon, and locking himself away in his cabin. No matter how brave a move James knew it to be, he felt at the core betrayed. Once again, he was alone and this time it was unclear how long it would be so. Why couldn’t the man have dealt with this issue before coming out here? And why did he feel beholden to Sophia Cracroft enough to be here at all? 

In the end James decided he would try to ignore the shriveling of his burgeoning respect for Francis Crozier; it would not do to judge so harshly a man who was truly trying to take a right path—even if there was a part of James that felt it was too little too late.

It was such thoughts that haunted James in his quiet moments, until one day when he went to grab a particular volume from _The Terror_ ’s library. Upon locating it and reaching to pull the book from the shelf, a low groan had emanated from Francis’ cabin. This was a guttural tone of discomfort and was easily distinguishable through the door. Against his better judgement James crept closer. 

“Jopson—are you in there?” James asked in a low tone, gently rapping his knuckles against the wood of the door. Silence. And then, another groan but slightly more pained. A bit of worry wormed itself into James’ heart. 

James swallowed and opened the door before he could overthink. Inside was dark and smelled of sickness, but with a look of great care about it—Jopson had clearly been working hard to keep the area as clean as possible. But this did not answer the question of where the blasted man was at this very moment. 

Francis was curled in a shivering mass on the bed, shirt soaked through with sweat. A bucket of water sat on the floor next to a neatly stacked pile of cloths. Gently James knelt next to his captain’s bed, pulling the blankets the other man had nearly dislodged back up to his chin. This was untenable, he could not just leave Francis in this state alone. So, James settled into a seated position, unsure of what to do. He was not unfamiliar with sickness, and was intimately familiar with injury—but of the sort that took place either in a hurried battle or in the safety of home.

Lightly he reached out and ran a hand over Francis’ forehead, pushing the sweaty hair out of his face. Dampening a cloth James wiped at the pale, exhausted visage of his unconscious captain. Something of the tension around Francis’ eyes melted away even in his sleep and an answering feeling of tenderness wedge itself into James’ heart—stinging where before there’d only been burning anger and resentment. He’d been stoking those feelings lately for fear of the other man’s returned disregard; he could only take so much rejection, his own self-confidence tenuous. But now…

Now even when he reached for the anger it was no longer there. James sighed throwing the cloth gently to the side and leaning back against the wall, letting his head fall back for some easily had support. Watching Francis intently, allowing his mind to wander through the memories and thoughts throughout their voyage so far, James finally accepted the warm feelings that had come to settle into the anger’s place. 


	4. Chapter 4

Carnivale. Even while it was happening each moment stuttered into the next, the present disjointed and the future moving in too fast for James to process. The feeling of unreality continued into the events after, and even years later James would struggle to recall the events in a linear manner (not that he would want to). What felt like decades trying to name the dead. The brief shard of daylight slicing into him, such light foreign like the fire returning. And then his own long lonely walk back to _Erebus_ , in truth surrounded by many men in a like state—but he might as well have been alone for all he felt their presence.

James finally made it back to his cabin and briskly scrubbed his skin with water and soap, disposing of his clothes and pulling on a cleaner replacement, going so far even as to spray his hair with perfume. Anything to drown out the overpowering scent of burnt flesh. He then curled up in his bed under all the blankets he could find. He was exhausted enough that sleep came immediately, but not without chaotic dreams of fire and screams masked by endless darkness and only the briefest glimpses of the sun that were quickly eclipsed by despair. 

When James woke again it was with a start to the sound of Bridgens gently knocking at the door, “Captain Fitzjames? I’ve brought you a bit to eat and some tea.” 

Never before had James wanted to rise from bed less, but he did—with full faith that the day could not be any worse than the last.

*

Francis could not help but be concerned. His fellow captain had all but fallen silent outside of planning and meetings with the officers. Never before would Francis have thought that he would come to miss the other man’s voice, even the self-important speeches. But with the clarity of mind sobriety afforded him Francis had much more time on his hands to consider others. Francis decided after much reflection that he had enough of other man’s self-pity, it did not suit him to lack the polished confidence that he’d exhibited so far. And so, Francis barged into James’ cabin to tell him such in those exact words. Loudly.

James watched him for just a moment, long enough for Francis to realize that perhaps blurting it out like that had not been the most appropriate or compassionate course of action. After the extended—somehow disdainful—silence James’ eyes darted down and back up again in a cold once-over, a slight sneer appearing on his face, “Enough? Enough of what, Francis. Enough of the cold, enough of darkness, enough of death--“ 

James stood from his chair and turned around abruptly, bracing both hands against the nearby windowsill, voice cracking as he broke off. Silently he stared out at the dark ice, and in the reflection of the window Francis could see the gentle twitching of James’ mouth as he tried to reassert control of himself. Alarmed Francis took a few steps toward him only to stop as James whirled back around, eyes damp and jaw clenched. With a pang, Francis remembered the same lost, agonized expression after the death of Sir John not too long ago and the other man’s equally stalwart attempt to hide it.

“I have had more than enough, as have you and I’d wager every member of _our_ _crew_. What will do you about it, Francis,” James demanded, slowly becoming recomposed but in an icy way that bespoke of tumultuous waters deep underneath. 

Francis exhaled and forced himself to relax, “James my friend, I will be here. That is simply all I can offer, and now that I am of…sound mind I realize that this is something that up until now has not been so. I am here to walk with you, to be a listening ear, a fellow traveler on this lonely path we both now walk. As you tried to tell me before, we have a responsibility. I intend to see it through, together.”

James looked down and breathed out slowly, rubbing at his eyes with a hand tiredly and pinching the bridge of his nose. This gave Francis a moment to close his eyes and breath, disarmed by James’ pain—then he crossed the room until he was standing directly in front of James, gently taking the one hand still hanging limply at James’ side his. Though large the other man’s hand was delicate, callused in rare spots from the pen and other work, dry and cracked in spots from the cold. 

Francis’ hands were just able to encircle it and as he did so imagining he could simply press the tension out. Francis patiently waited in silence, allowing the brush of his thumb to turn into a very slight caress against the other man’s wrist. James was shaking very slightly, composure cracking, healing, re-cracking—a very study in what Francis could only call the quietest of desperation. He wondered what it had been like for the other man these past weeks and intensely regretted the part he had played in increasing their difficulties. 

“Look at me, James,” he did so quite slowly, and as their eyes met Francis nodded in an attempt to replicate a modicum of Sir John’s reassuring air, “This was not your fault.”

At long last they were seeing eye to eye, both literally and figuratively. The moment grounded both of them while still something seemed to shift in the world around them.

“Nor was it yours, Francis,” James offered finally, resolute.

“Then we are in agreement. Let us move forward,” Francis replied, with the smallest of smiles. James merely reached his free hand over and to cover Francis’ own.


	5. Chapter 5 - an interlude

The preparations that needed made were nigh endless, but the men still in shock enough that the fruition of the officer’s more intimate planning sessions came into being without much discussion. It was in this time that Francis and James began to enjoy one another’s company night and day, hesitantly broaching to more personal topics as time wore on. 

It was strange to James that someone whom he had known for so long with little true communication was now such a vital part of his everyday life. If before they had been like their two ships gliding along one another but never in contact, they now were like a single ship—perhaps James the sails and Francis the rudder. For James knew that without Francis’ direction, he would have been lost--(And on the other end, Francis knew without James’ motivation and energy he would be stuck in a stall. Not that either man would yet share these thoughts with the other, that was to come much later.) 

The simple fact was that James had never before had someone so steadfast and present to him. No longer did he yearn for the sun, Francis had only to walk into a room and it would rise there before him.

* 

Walking away from the ships was certainly the hardest thing that Francis had experienced in many ways, but also the most necessary. And as the long walk began and continued the only comfort he could find was the periodic feeling of James’ hand in his, as they helped one another clear climbs and circumvent particularly ugly patches of ice.

Long nights in their tent were spent telling one another about old friends and family, interests and hobbies; dispensing some jokes amidst the plans and discussion of what was to come. Francis would never call himself content even in those moments, but a sense of peace descended on him during those talks. And crawling into their makeshift beds side by side, backs and shoulders nearly touching—in a way it almost felt like finding a home. 

*

James couldn’t believe it, the second the words had poured out of him there had been no time to regret, but he’d been overcome by disbelief at what he was daring to give voice. Putting at risk the tenuous regard Francis held for him, telling him the truth. They were still walking, together, and since their talk Francis had been walking slightly closer, periodically eyeing him with concern.

“There’s no need to eye me so, Francis,” he finally said, grinning ruefully at the other man, “I am quite all right. I must…thank you, for your acceptance, your understanding—”

Francis made a noise low in his throat, silencing James.

“Neither of those are a trial for me, James. Acceptance and understanding I gave to you with hope months ago. It is only _you_ that I need accept and understand, not the image of yourself presented to the world. The former of which I give freely and the latter I believe I am beginning to—I would like to continue to understand even more.”

The words were rushed and a bit quiet, not shyly offered but tentatively. James felt his heart glow, a wide smile pulling at his cheeks. He reached out a hand and clasped at Francis’ shoulder, tugging gently at the coat. 

“Francis, that is the kindest thing anyone has ever said to me. I’ve gone so long pushing through life, only letting people see the most surface level parts of myself; afraid of what I would find in their eyes when they saw me for what I am. And I only can say that I will do the same for you, accept you as you are and try to understand your mind and heart, always,” as he spoke, James had slowly come to a stop, other hand reaching up to grip Francis’ unoccupied shoulder.

Francis had come to a stop as well, in a more meandering way but drawn along in James’ own orbit. For a moment the world faded, the cold and the bright sunlight inconsequential. The only thing James could focus on was the eyes of his friend, peering into his own warmly. The level of affection and respect in them actually made James’ heart flutter, an unnamed emotion building within him.

He wasn’t sure what he would’ve said next, but the moment was solidly broken by a clang in the distance, and a rise of irate voices. James let his hands drop to his sides.

“Back to camp then,” Francis said, smiling a rueful smile that James gladly returned.


	6. Chapter 6

It wasn’t hot but despite himself James could feel the sweat, born from hours of hauling. His whole body was aching, hot, and every so often he stumbled a bit on the rocky ground. No one yet had noticed, but it was only a matter of time. James knew he was fading fast. But what was the use in worrying Francis?

Between the attempted mutiny and the attack from their creature it seemed the situation was reaching a point in which it could not possibly be improved on. Even in his own mind James could barely allow himself to think that this could be the end, but it seemed unavoidable. It was all he could hope that Francis at least would be able to walk out of this, and that alone kept James marching.

All else aside it was a wondrous thing, having someone outside himself that seemed so essential that he would live or die solely for their benefit. Not that James had been immune to love previously but this was something else, something vital that kept his heart beating long past what felt like it should have been his natural expiration date. 

With these musings rolling in the back of his mind, James felt a wave of wooziness chase the flutter of emotions and finally—he stumbled and fell face down to the ground, his weakened legs suddenly unable to support his weight.

“Hold on!” he heard Francis call to the men, James struggling and failing to stand up. He settled on merely kneeling, chest heaving and heart pounding as he attempted to regain his strength. _If he could just stand_.

Francis appeared at James’ side, grabbing his outstretched hand and wrapping an arm around James’ shoulders so he could hold the man to him in a reassuring grip. James tore off his harness with the assistance of Bridgens and Francis, then pulled back his coat despite the dread of what he knew would be there. _Blood_. Still at his side, Francis drew back in shock even as James looked up at him entreatingly.

James felt himself begin to fall sideways, the world moving too fast around him as he hit the ground, the pain muffled beneath the layers of older and deeper agonies. Hands reached to steady him but it wasn’t until he felt Francis’ hand grasp his own again that the panic began to recede.

“James! James, open your eyes,” Francis whispered, other hand resting on James’ cheek as he tried to direct their gazes to meet. 

Fully cognizant of his friend’s effort, James opened his eyes to slits--as much as he could bear. Francis’ worried face was the first thing he saw, close enough to his own that James could fully drink in the sight of his kind eyes, the set of his tense mouth.  
  
Francis looked up at whoever was behind, “We need to get him in one of the boats, until we can make camp.”

And with a grunt Francis wrapped an arm around James’ back, pushed another under his knees, picking him up nary a stumble with assistance from the still hovering Bridgens. Surprised and a bit delighted despite himself, James tangled a hand in Francis’ coat and resting his head on the man’s shoulder. The world was fading in and out but as they walked towards one of the boats James just tried to focus on the feeling of Francis’ arms around him.

*

James settled in the boat as the men trudged on, dazedly watching the sky above him as he slid in and out of delirious dreams. In one particularly peaceful moment he became convinced he was in a sitting room with Francis, on a particularly soft chair laughing over a newspaper and sharing some tea. He was awoken by the feeling of what had to be millions of shards of glass ripping him to shreds—screaming in agony, longing for that quiet room with Francis, it must stop soon… 

“James! Are you all right?” Francis demanded, his voice pitched low but urgent and all James could manage was a tearful nod. Francis turned aside to speak with Blanky and Bridgens, only to be interrupted by Jopson who had been standing near.

“Captain! Look out there, something’s coming towards us. You don’t think it’s—” 

“No, it’ll not be Hickey, it’s much too small,” Blanky cut in, an incredulous smile blooming on his face, “That looks to be a fox.”

Someone chortled about dinner, and indistinct voices rose from all the men around as everyone clamored to speak. But who it was or wasn’t James was not to know, as he finally slid fully into unconsciousness even with the rising sound of excited voices all around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Foxes guys: https://actualmichelle.tumblr.com/post/185454016170/james-ross-so-sanguine-about-events-only-a-few


	7. Chapter 7

At first the fox was mainly to function as dinner, but that plan was quickly laid to rest when Edward Little pointed out a collar fitted to its neck. A far more exciting prospect even than food, they discovered a note secured in the collar. A note with the signature of none other than John Ross.

Francis trembled with hope—the first hope he had felt in a long while. And with this strange sensation he wandered back to James’ side, gently grasping the other man’s hand.

“James, can you hear me?” Francis asked as he squeezed lightly, tendrils of worry piercing back through, “Come on James, wake up, I have news.” 

James shifted, furrowing his brow and cracking his eyes open, “Francis…what has happened? Did I fall…” 

Francis leaned closer to his friend, mildly reassured by the clarity in his voice, “Never mind that James, it’s over. We’ve just found a note from a rescue party. I am about to set out to find them and get us out of this godforsaken place. James, we are going to be saved.” 

Eyes wide with the beginnings of a smile James shook his head, “That is…wonderful news. You must set off at once, Francis.”

“But?”

“I fear I may not make it out. Just…hurry, Francis,” and with that James drifted back into the depths of unconsciousness, and the last of Francis’ hope leeched away. 

Leaving Thomas and Edward with James and all the others ill or injured, Francis divided the remaining men up into small groups. The set out from their new camp to cover as much ground as possible, agreeing to return with the rescue part if they were to be found. Francis set out with Jopson, and was to be sorely disappointed by their own venture. Upon heading back the next day, Francis could only hope that better luck was had by one of the other parties.

And that hope proved to not be in vain. Francis noticed it as soon as the camp was in his line of site—there were sledges with much fresh equipment, and greater numbers of figures than he expected. In addition, the smell of a meal cooking wafted through the air. Jopson stopped walking, transfixed. Francis grasped the younger man’s shoulder, “Come on Jopson, let’s both get something to eat.”

As they walked up Blanky staggered out to meet them, happily bringing them straight to the food. Everyone sat around eating slowly but reverently, and Francis grabbed himself a bite, hurrying to James’ tent. He was inside, a Doctor kneeling next to him speaking in a low voice. 

“Francis,” James shakily lowered the cup he been about to drink from, “We seem to have been rescued after all.”

Francis gaped at him, while not healthy looking in the slightest his friend no longer appeared to be on the cusp of death. The mere fact he was alert and able to sit—albeit propped up—was simply astounding. A well of grateful happiness choked Francis and for a moment all he could do was continue standing and staring. At his side Jopson laid a tentative hand at his elbow, “Sir?” 

Forcing himself to move Francis rushed to James’ side, kneeling next to the doctor, “How is he?”

James stared at him in mild alarm, shifting to sit up even more, “Francis—I’m going to be all right. Just--,” James reached out a hand and patted somewhat ineffectually at Francis’ own.

“I won’t 'just' anything, James, when I left here you were struggling to draw breath! What has happened?” 

The doctor cleared his throat, “Captain Crozier—with scurvy, sometimes all it takes is a bit of lemon juice to get everything sorted. Captain Fitzjames is quite correct, with a bit of rest and some proper nutrition he will be well enough in a month’s time.”

The boundless joy Francis felt at that surpassed even what he’d felt when he realized that help had finally come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taking a few liberties with the medicinal powers of lemon juice, but in this case I prefer fiction to reality. :)


	8. Chapter 8

With the proper assistance even the horrendously ill and malnourished state of the crew began to improve. Sufficient food, water, and copious amounts of lemon juice all contributed to the steady recovery of even the worst off of the men. Perhaps also a contributing factor was the appearance of so many health people—combined with the offering of help it served as inspiration, rather than merely a disheartening reminder at how far they had fallen.

What seemed most inspiring to Francis—other than the return of spirit to his men—was the presence of a certain Sir James Ross. After their initial reunion the two men could hardly be parted. Francis still visited James at all times of the day, but his dear friend was never far behind. And James felt nothing but happiness for his friend, but at the same time a strange loneliness began to fester. 

Perhaps it was the remains of the scurvy and horror of recent events still weighing heavily on his mind, but James felt tendrils of darkness begin to grasp him. Their cold fingers clung to him hardest in dreams, hunted by images of pain and abandonment. The doctor still gave him a good prognosis, but James felt no joy at it—a fact which escaped the notice of any medical officials, until Doctor Goodsir had recovered enough himself to take over James’ care.

“Captain, will you please tell me what ails you?” Goodsir finally asked, on one of the rare occasions they found themselves alone for a long period and after days of furtive glances.

James merely shook his head, “I am fine Doctor Goodsir, truly, I just…cannot wait to be home again.” 

The other man had accepted that easily enough, but Francis was another matter. Goodsir must have brought up the issue with him, because shortly after James had to endure long curious looks from his friend. Ross did not follow in kind, and Francis’ discretion (for whatever he believed to be wrong) was again one of the many, many things James most dearly loved about him. 

But one day the silence held no longer. James had become well enough for short walks, during which Francis stuck to his side. These walks were a rare occasion where Ross habitually did not make an appearance. After returning to his tent and sitting tiredly upon the makeshift bed Francis settled in the chair at James’ side, regarding him silently.

“Do you have something to say, Francis?” James asked after a moment, eyebrows raised slightly sardonically.

“I would like to know what weighs on your mind. You have not been yourself, though you heal—Doctor Goodsir is concerned that this could affect your long-term recovery. Won’t you tell me what is bothering you?” 

It was the caring gaze of Francis that did it, and the still remaining dredges of exhaustion and general malaise weighing him down. James' hands twisted in the blanket he had only just covered himself with, despite himself hot tears filling his eyes. Francis cursed, moving hurriedly from his chair to sit on James’ bed as near as he could while still directly facing him.

“ _James_ ,” Francis said lowly, darting a furtive glance at the entrance to the tent.

“I am sorry, Francis! I’ve tried to keep…my darkest thoughts to myself. But I am afraid I cannot do so any longer,” James exhaled shakily, “I find myself worrying what will become of me when we return home. I have friends, family—but I fear it will still be such a lonely, desolate existence now.”

His thoughts finally catching up with his voice James began to realize the truth of what he was saying, the words continuing to fall out of him along with the tears.

“I am not like you. I do not have loyal friends who know me…and love me despite my faults. I have always done to show only the best parts of myself, a carefully tailored fiction. It is certainly a ruse I do not feel capable of performing any longer. We…I…have gone through, seen so much. I will be lost once we return.”

Francis sighed in an aggrieved fashion, and James winced, turning his face away.

“My apologies. Francis-I should not burden you so—”

“James, for Christ’s sake be silent for a moment will you?” Francis replied, and James continued to stare steadfast at the canvas across their space, stomach sinking into a dark pit.

Francis sighed again, “James, I love you despite your faults. I know you. And I will continue to do both those things as long as I live, this won't change upon our return.”

James’ breath stuttered, whipping his head around to stare at Francis, eyes wide and for a moment wet but shocked away from their tears.

“Now what is this really about, what brought this on?” Francis demanded, reaching his hands over to grab James’ wrists firmly.

The touch was implicitly grounding, and the world seemed to right itself somewhat. 

“I just—I’ve seen you. With Sir James. You two know one another so deeply. And Thomas. Even Jopson. And these are just those individuals currently on this expedition. Who knows what else you have waiting back at home—up to and including…,” James stopped, feeling suddenly tense.

Francis gently shook at James’ wrists, leaning closer, “Up to and including _what_ , James?”

“Sophia Cracroft.”

The two men stared at one another in silence for a very long moment, Francis drawing back and letting go of James abruptly.

“I believe that…ship has sailed, James. And even if not, nothing would tear me from your side,” he finally said firmly, “Including James Ross.”

There’s never truly an end to feeling haunted, but at that moment a little part of James Fitzjames made peace with itself in a way he’d never thought possible. And on Francis’ part, he realized in the moment that followed, truer words he had never spoken.


End file.
